“We are released from one complication,” said Locke, “and flung headlong into another. And this bitch has teeth.”
“What news?” said Jean.
“The worst sort.” Locke dropped into a chair, threw back his head, and closed his eyes. “Nazca’s dead.”
“What?” Calo leapt to his feet; Galdo wasn’t far behind. “How did that happen?”
“The Gray King happened. It must have been the ‘other business’ he referred to when I was his guest. He sent the body back to her father in a vat of horse piss.”
“Gods,” said Jean. “I’m so sorry, Locke.”
“And now,” continued Locke, “you and I are expected to accompany the Capa when he avenges her, at the ‘clandestine meeting’ three nights hence. Which will be at the Echo Hole, by the way. And the capa’s idea of ‘clandestine’ is a hundred knives charging in to cut the Gray King to bloody pieces.”
“Cut you to bloody pieces, you mean,” said Galdo.
“I’m well aware of who’s supposed to be strutting around wearing the Gray King’s clothes, thanks very much. I’m just debating whether or not I should hang an archery butt around my neck. Oh, and wondering if I can learn to split myself in two before Duke’s Day.”
“This entire situation is insane.” Jean slammed his book shut in disgust.
“It was insane before; now it’s become malicious.”
“Why would the Gray King kill Nazca?”
“To get the capa’s attention.” Locke sighed. “Either to frighten him, which it certainly hasn’t accomplished, or to piss him off beyond all mortal measure, which it has.”
“There will never be peace, now. The capa will kill the Gray King or get himself killed trying.” Calo paced furiously. “Surely the Gray King must realize this. He hasn’t facilitated negotiations; he’s made them impossible. Forever.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Locke, “that the Gray King may not be telling us everything concerning this scheme of his.”
“Out the Viscount’s Gate, then,” said Galdo. “We can spend the afternoon securing transportation and goods. We can pack up our fortune; vanish onto the road. Fuck, if we can’t find somewhere to build another life with forty-odd thousand crowns at our fingertips, we don’t deserve to live. We could buy titles in Lashain; make Bug a count and set ourselves up as his household.”
“Or make ourselves counts,” said Calo, “and set Bug up as our household. Run him back and forth. It’d be good for his moral education.”
“We can’t,” said Locke. “We have to presume the Gray King can follow us wherever we go, or, perhaps more accurately, that his Bondsmage can. So long as the Falconer serves him, we can’t run. At least not as a first option.”
“What about as a second?” asked Jean.
“If it comes to that…we might as well try. We can get things ready, and if we absolutely must run for the road, well, we’ll put ourselves in harness and pull with the horses if we have to.”
“Which leaves only the conundrum,” said Jean, “of which commitment to slip you out of, the night of this meeting at the Echo Hole.”
“No conundrum,” said Locke. “The Gray King has it over us; Barsavi we know we can fool. So I’ll play the Gray King and figure out some way to ease us out of our commitment to the capa without getting executed for it.”
“That would be a good trick,” said Jean.
“But what if it’s not necessary?” Calo pointed at his brother. “One of us can play the Gray King, and you and Jean can stand beside Barsavi as required.”
“Yes,” said Galdo, “an excellent idea.”
“No,” said Locke. “For one thing, I’m a better false-facer than either of you, and you know it. You two are just slightly too conspicuous. It can’t be risked. For another, while I’m playing the Gray King, you two will be forgotten by everyone. You’ll be free to move around as you like. I’d rather have you waiting with transportation at one of our meeting spots, in case things go sour and we do need to flee.”
“And what about Bug?”
“Bug,” said Bug, “has been faking snoring for the past few minutes. And I know the Echo Hole; I used to hide there sometimes when I was with the Shades’ Hill gang. I’ll be down there under the floor, beside the waterfall, watching for trouble.”
“Bug,” said Locke, “you’ll-”
“If you don’t like it, you’ll have to lock me in a box to stop me. You need a spotter, and the Gray King didn’t say you couldn’t have friends lurking. That’s what I do. I lurk. None of you can do it like I can, because you’re all bigger and slower and creakier and-”
“Gods,” said Locke. “My days as a garrista are numbered; Duke Bug is dictating the terms of his service. Very well, Your Grace. I’ll give you a role that will keep you close at hand-but you lurk where I tell you to lurk, right?”
“Bloody right!”
“Then it’s settled,” said Locke. “And if no one else has a pressing need for me to imitate the great and powerful, or a friend of mine they’d like to murder, I could use some sleep.”
“It’s too gods-damned bad about Nazca,” said Galdo. “The son of a bitch.”
“Yes,” said Locke. “In fact, I’m going to speak to him about it this very evening. Him or his pet sorcerer, whichever thinks to come.”
“The candle,” said Jean.
“Yeah. After you and I finish our business, and after Falselight. You can wait down in the Last Mistake. I’ll sit up here, light it, and wait for them to show.” Locke grinned. “Let those fuckers enjoy the walk up our stairs.”
3
THE DAY turned out clear and pleasant, the evening as fresh as they ever came in Camorr. Locke sat in the seventh-floor rooms with the windows open and the mesh screens down as the purple sky lit up with rising streamers of ghostly light.
The Falconer’s candle smoldered on the table beside the remains of Locke’s small dinner and a half-empty bottle of wine. The other half of that bottle was warming Locke’s stomach as he sat, facing the door, massaging the fresh dressing Jean had insisted on wrapping his arm with before taking up his post in the Last Mistake.
“Crooked Warden,” said Locke to thin air, “if I’m pissing you off for some reason, you don’t need to go to such elaborate lengths to chastise me. And if I’m not pissing you off, well, I pray that you still find me amusing.” He flexed the fingers of his injured arm, wincing, then took up his wineglass and the bottle one more time.
“A glass poured to air for an absent friend,” he said as he filled it with dark red wine-a Nacozza retsina that had actually come from Don Salvara’s upriver vineyards. A gift to Lukas Fehrwight as he stepped off the don’s pleasure barge so many days earlier…or not so many days earlier. It felt like a lifetime.
“We miss Nazca Barsavi already, and we wish her well. She was a fair garrista and she tried to help her pezon out of an untenable situation for them both. She deserved better. Piss on me all you like, but do what you can for her. I beg this as your servant.”
“If you wish to measure a man’s true penitence,” said the Falconer, “observe him when he believes himself to be dining alone.”
The front door was just closing behind the Bondsmage; Locke had not seen or heard it open. For that matter, it had been bolted. The Falconer was without his bird, and dressed in the same wide-skirted gray coat with silver-buttoned scarlet cuffs Locke had seen the night before. A gray velvet cap was tilted back atop his head, adorned with a single feather under a silver pin, easily identified as having come from Vestris.